


Heaven (Beside You)

by hairbearstare



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13286757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairbearstare/pseuds/hairbearstare
Summary: Murphy'd had twelve stitches, and the doctor gave him a prescription for morphine.And that's where the trouble started.





	Heaven (Beside You)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Boondock Saints fandom. I'm late to the party, aren't I? My Irish accents aren't very good, so forgive me. First time writing for this fandom too, sooooo yeah. Enjoy!

The first time had been when Murphy was fifteen.

He was a fighter at school—something the nuns and his Ma had resented. He'd hit on every pretty girl at the neighbouring girls' school, which gained him a lot of enemies at his own. Enough to have his nose broken twice, some busted knuckles, cracked ribs, and a fractured collarbone. The worst one, and the one that would define the rest of Murphy's life, was the time Ben Boyle stabbed him in the shoulder with a kitchen knife.

Murphy would always say it wasn't his fault, that he'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was at a house party, and Ben's slag girlfriend was the one who came up and sat in _his_ lap. It had caused quite the stir, and Murphy still wasn't sure how her tongue ended up in his mouth, or his hand up her skirt. Too many beers could cause some serious lapses in memory.

Fucking Ben, though, waited until Murphy was outside with his brother, smoking, to come up and cause a fuss. It wasn't a big deal, just harsh words thrown around, until Ben decided to stab him in the shoulder when Murphy's back was turned.

Of course Connor had knocked his lights out, and then rushed him off to the hospital.

He'd had twelve stitches, and the doctor gave him a prescription for morphine.

And that's where the trouble started.

Ben Boyle, that son of a whore. The stab had hurt like nothing else, but the _morphine_ had been a revelation for Murphy. Take more than the doctor's orders, and feel incredible. He'd split most of it with his dear brother, and they'd spent several days home from school melting into the cushions of the couch, watching horrible daytime television.

Once his prescription was done, he didn't want that feeling to end. He kept chasing it through the rest of his teenage years, and on through adulthood. He eventually found out that he could get the same feeling for much cheaper through heroin, instead of wasting his money on prescription pills.

He'd only use seldomly, though, didn't want to get addicted. And of course Connor had no idea—he'd lose his shit.

He'd smoke it off a piece of tinfoil on the fire escape outside their building when Connor was passed out drunk, or off with some girl. He craved the feeling of pure relaxation—euphoria—more than he cared to admit. Especially after a long day's work at the meat processing plant. Christ, it was too good. Dangerously good.

 

-

 

“Everything all right, Murph?” Connor asked, over the lip of a beer glass at McGinty's.

“O'course,” Murphy replied. He'd been distracted the past couple hours they were there, downing pints without saying a word. He had a half gram burning a hole in his pocket—a recent stock up for the Fourth of July long weekend. A little splurge for himself that he was just itching to dig into.

“Ye lookin' to get lucky, Murph?” Connor grinned. “Ain't that Mary Donnelly over there? Didn't ye two used ta have a thing goin'?”

“Coupla shags ain't a _thing_ , Conn,” Murphy snorted. “Christ, I'm _fine_ , a'right?”

“Yer irritable, Murph, means ye haven't got laid in awhile.”

“Fuck off, Conn, I'm warnin' ye.” He sent his dirtiest glare his brother's way.

“Fine, fine. Just sayin', ye should think about talkin' ta ol' Mary over there. She might be able ta help ye out a bit.” Connor had the fucking gall to _wink_ at him then.

Murphy just rolled his eyes and downed the remainder of the beer in his glass. “I'm goin' home. Ye comin' or not?”

“Whatever milady desires,” Connor snickered, throwing some cash on the counter for Doc.

“Fuck off.”

 

-

 

Connor wouldn't leave him be on that weekend and it was driving Murphy up the wall. All he wanted was a little alone time to dip into his stash. It was a long weekend, all he wanted was to _indulge_. Lord have mercy, he was craving it so badly. He was starting to get snappy with Connor, too, which just ended in more relentless teasing, which just drove Murphy crazier.

All he wanted was a little blissful oblivion, but couldn't do it with Connor constantly breathing down his neck.

After a particularly heated bit of bickering, however, Connor eventually decided he'd rather just go to the pub by himself, and left Murphy to watch baseball _alone_.

Thank the Lord in Heaven.

Murphy immediately ripped off a piece of tinfoil, and grabbed the cut off straw he kept under his mattress. He turned the lights out and, lighter in hand, dumped out a good size pile of brown powder onto the foil. He lit the lighter with shaking hands, straw in his mouth and _inhaled_.

Christ, that was good.

The feeling started at his forehead and spread through his entire body, down to his toes, like waves gently rolling over him. Every muscle in his body relaxed, one-by-one, and he felt as if he were on top of the world. He didn't think about anything, his mind a beautiful blank.

“ _Christ_ ,” he breathed out.

The feeling was just too good. He was floating through space and time, suspended by the air. Every time he breathed in, he felt himself lift higher and higher, out of body, and out of mind, just a soul drifting in the slipstream. Everything was perfect then, in that moment. Everything was just grand.

He tried to clean up his mess with numb fingers, crumpling up the tinfoil and tossing it in the general direction of the garbage can, slipping the straw between the couch cushions. Connor couldn't find out, he couldn't—

Don't think about Connor, not now. If he did, the terrible guilt he felt every time he did this would worm its way into his brain. He just needed to ride out the high, just feel good for a few hours without thoughts of his twin brother ruining it, because he would _hate_ him if he knew.

Stop thinking about Connor.

Fucking Connor. Always the better of them, more level-headed, always had his shit under control. Always the more popular with the ladies. Always considered the better looking twin. Connor, who fucking loved him anyway, no matter what.

_Stop thinking about Connor._

Murphy groaned to himself and shifted on the lumpy couch, it feeling much more comfortable than it had ten minutes ago. He pried open his heavy eyelids and tried to focus on baseball, but his foggy brain couldn't keep up, so he decided to close them again and just _feel_. So light and airy he felt, body just melting away in the couch cushions.

 

-

 

“Murph?”

“...Aye?”

Murphy's throat felt like sandpaper. He must have fallen asleep in front of the television, because it was now playing some late night infomercials. His neck felt stiff and sore, and he realized it was because he passed out sitting upright, head lolled back against the couch.

“Ye a'right, Murph? Haven't seen ye pass out like that since we were boys. Ye been hittin' the whiskey again?”

“Might have,” Murphy croaked, cracking his neck. Fuck, he was sore. His entire body felt like lead.

“Let's get ye ta bed,” Connor sighed, grabbing Murphy by his side and lifting him up. He could smell the alcohol on Connor's breath, and they both swayed a bit as they made their way to Murphy's bed.

Murphy, still feeling half-buzzed, fell down onto his bed with a grateful sigh. He pulled Connor down, too, in a fit of spontaneous affection, and squeezed him tight. “Fuckin' love ye, little brother.”

“Don't fuckin' call me little brother, ye know I came out first,” Connor laughed.

Murphy didn't respond, just inhaled deeply, feeling comfortable holding his brother close.

“I love ye too, ye twat, now let me go. I gotta sleep too, ye know.”

“Aye,” Murphy grumbled, and hesitantly let Connor go to his own bed.

 

-

 

He'd done too much too quickly.

It was stupid, really. Connor was spending a lot of time with his newest fling he'd met at McGinty's—some cunt with huge tits named Shelby or Sharon or some shite. Sometimes he was gone for a couple days at a time, and Murphy just got bored. He'd picked up a good supply of of his favourite vices—whiskey, cigarettes, heroin.

He'd drank all the whiskey the night before, and with still no sign of Connor, decided to dive deep into his supply of smack. He smoked almost all of it over the course of a blissful Saturday. By the time evening rolled around, there were bits of tinfoil scattered all over the loft, several cans of beans sitting half-empty on the kitchen table, and piles of cigarette butts in coffee mugs, ashtrays, and bowls.

By the time Murphy fell asleep, he felt fucking fantastic.

He woke up the next morning, early, feeling achy. He looked at the clock, where it read eight AM in too-bright red letters. He'd woken up on time to drag his ass out of bed for morning Mass, but he felt fucking terrible. No Connor yet. He'd probably be expecting to meet Murphy at the church.

Murphy groaned. His stomach was in knots. Too much smack the night before.

He was cold and hot at the same time, goosebumps ran over his skin in waves. _Fuck_ he felt horrible. But he couldn't miss Mass. He had to go, to cleanse his soul, to beg God's forgiveness for all his shortcomings—to see Connor.

Murphy dragged himself upright. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He couldn't go to Mass like this.

The half-empty baggie of heroin and blackened tinfoil under his bed seemed to call his name. Just a little bit, maybe. Just a little bit to feel all right during morning Mass, while he saw Connor.

God Almighty, forgive him, for he was weak.

He smoked just the smallest amount, just enough so he didn't feel sick anymore.

As soon as he exhaled the acrid smoke, the nausea, the chills, the goosebumps all disappeared, and Murphy felt normal again. He also felt a horrible guilt settle in the pit of his stomach. He'd never been to Mass high—never been around Connor while high.

He had to, though, just this once, and then not again for a long while. He was becoming a little too involved with his heroin as of late. It would be just the once that day, and then not again.

 

-

 

“Ye lookin' a little peaky there, Murph, ye a'right?” Connor asked, just outside their church.

Murphy knew his pupils were pinpricks, and only half-lidded, but he couldn't open them any further. He was also standing with a bit more of a slouch, staring at the pavement and trying not to meet his twin's eyes. “M'fine. Just a touch of the flu, maybe.”

“Whatever ye say. Let's go in.”

The church loomed above them, all stone and wood and glass. It felt unwelcoming then, a feeling Murphy wasn't used to while attending church. Like something didn't want him inside. His stomach lurched, but he pressed on inside anyways.

They sat through Mass in silence. Murphy kept his eyes shut, mumbling silent prayers to himself and to God, begging His forgiveness, making promises that he wouldn't touch heroin again, especially not in a place of worship.

_I'm so sorry_ , he thought, over and over, _God in Heaven, I am so sorry._

 

-

 

A week. He lasted a glorious week of being clean, feeling like crap, but pushing through with sense of accomplishment sitting deep in his gut. He spent a week drinking more beer than he normally would, and essentially chain smoking, but no fucking heroin. He felt great about it, felt like he could keep going on without it, to just be done with it for good. He spent a good week at McGinty's, screwing around with his twin brother, with Rocco, watching sports, drinking beers, being fucking normal. Maybe this would be it, he thought. Maybe this would be the time he could kick it.

It was a good week.

Then the boredom set in again. The itch came back, that little niggling in the back of his brain. And that was it, he was on the phone again, calling around, trying to pick up, just a little, just this once, then not again. One more time. He'd done so well, why not treat himself?

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

He took the MBTA to his dealer's place, just a couple stops away. He was a big Irish fucker, with a smattering of thinning blond hair, and a sparse sprinkling of white hairs that he called a mustache covering most of his upper lip. He called himself Quinn, but Murphy wasn't sure if that was his real name of not.

Quinn lived in a shitty old apartment that might have once been a hotel room, since all it had was a tiny kitchenette, a stained mattress with no sheets, and a TV that was probably from the early eighties.

The transaction was quick, Quinn handing a few paper packets to Murphy, and Murphy handing over cash. His heart was pounding in his chest as he held the little packages in his palm, could feel himself almost salivating.

“Mind if I smoke in here?” Murphy asked quickly, eager.

“Nah, go ahead,” Quinn mumbled. He was melting some of his own in a spoon over a lighter, a belt wrapped loosely around his arm. “Why the fuck ye still smoking it? Ye waste so fuckin' much that way.”

Murphy's eyes darted over to Quinn, saw the needle tucked in his mouth, the junk melting in the spoon, the way the needle sucked it up through the little bit of cotton he placed in it, the yellowy brown liquid in the syringe—

“Fuck off,” Murphy huffed, breathless as he watched that needle piercing the skin, draw blood, plunge down. He swallowed thickly as Quinn's eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. He knew that look. It was like his own first time smoking heroin—pure bliss.

“Ye should try it, man. S'fuckin' _good.”_

Murphy gnawed on his bottom lip. Quinn's head was lolling back, then off to the side, eyes half-lidded and faraway.

“Fuck it,” he growled in a rush of air, “ye got a clean sharp?”

Quinn smiled a dopey, rotten smile. “Sure fuckin' do.”

He loaded up a shot with surprising deft for someone so off their fucking face. He'd clearly been doing it for a long time. He tore open the package of a clean needle, Murphy watching intently. The liquid turned into a sickly yellow colour, and a vaguely sour, vinegary smell hung heavy in the air.

“Gimme yer fuckin' arm,” Quinn mumbled. He wrapped a belt around Murphy's bicep, pulled it tight, gave the crook of his elbow a couple taps until a vein bulged out. “Here we go.”

Murphy felt the slightest pinch with the needle going in. The next feeling he could only describe as the best orgasm he had ever had. His whole body felt like it was being swept up from under him in some sort of blissful riptide. His mind just went blank. The passage of time seemed to halt and speed up all at once. His whole body tingled. He forgot to breathe.

He wasn't on Earth anymore. He was floating in the stratosphere, bathed in the radioactive heat from the sun, warming him from the inside out. He didn't need air anymore, just to keep feeling, to keep floating, to keep being.

Murphy melted onto the ground. The smelly carpet he was previously standing on suddenly felt like the softest, most comfortable thing in the world. He laughed, fingers sprawled on the stained fibers, and just tried to keep holding on.

 

-

 

He stumbled home sometime later. He didn't know what time it was, but the sun was setting, so it was probably late. Hopefully Connor wouldn't be home, would be out drinking with Rocco or something. He didn't want to pretend to be sober in front of his brother. Connor would fucking know something was up, and Murphy felt too good to want to explain himself.

It was a quick trip back to the loft, thank the Lord. As he went up the elevator, he could hear the TV blaring. Fuck. Connor _was_ home.

“Murphy!” Connor yelled from the couch. “Where tha fuck ye been? Yer missing the Red Sox game!”

Connor was drunk. Good.

“Come have a fuckin' beer!” He was grinning that shit-eating grin, and Murphy couldn't help but smile back. He was just feeling on top of the fucking world.

“Quit yer shoutin', lemme get my coat off first, Christ...” He lit a cigarette and threw off his boots and jacket, plopped himself down on the couch next to his twin.

“Yer a bit flushed there, Murph, bit of a long walk?”

“Suppose so,” Murphy sighed, leaning against Connor and sucking on the filter of his cigarette. He could barely focus on the Red Sox game, feeling drowsier and drowsier. He just focused on the solid warmth of his brother against his side, and the cigarette smoke filling his lungs.

Connor wrapped an arm around Murphy's shoulders and downed the rest of the can of beer he was holding. “What'd ye get up ta today, Murph?”

“None of yer fuckin' business, ye nosy bastard.”

“Don't be gettin' yer knickers in a twist, miss, just wonderin' where my baby brother's been all day.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Murphy snorted, smacking Connor weakly on the chest. “Just runnin' errands. Seein' some people. Nothin' exciting, believe me.”

He couldn't help but press closer to his brother. He was so warm, so comfortable.

“Whatever ye say.” Connor squeezed Murphy's shoulders, and Murphy felt a swell of affection bloom somewhere within him. “Fuckin' love ya.”

“Yeah, I fuckin' love ya too.”

 

-

 

He couldn't go back to smoking, not after that first shot.

It was just _different_. It felt too good. It made him feel right. Peaceful. Calm.

It was a little more difficult to hide once he switched to needles, especially in cramped quarters with his twin brother. Murphy was constantly paranoid that Connor suspected—that he _knew_ somehow, even though he never showed any sign that he suspected anything. He started using in the stairwell, early in the morning, late at night, times when Connor wasn't home. He kept a stash of needles—some that he bought off Quinn, and some that pilfered off some diabetic cunt at the plant—under his mattress. He kept the heroin in his pillowcase.

It would fucking kill Connor if he knew.

Murphy started wearing long-sleeved shirts even on hot days. He stopped walking around the loft naked, stopped undressing in front of his brother. He was sure Connor noticed, but he never said anything. He never said a thing.

He started needing a shot to make it through the day. He started finding excuses not to go to Mass with Connor— _next week, Conn, I'm not feeling well this week; picked up a shift at the plant this week, Conn; just don't feel like it today—_ and Connor started giving him these _looks_ like he _knew_ , but he still never said anything.

Maybe he just didn't want to know. Maybe he thought Murphy was just seeing some broad, and that meant spending less time with him and with God. Maybe he thought Murphy would grow out of it soon, come back to him with a quick apology, and of course he'd quickly accept and they'd laugh about it.

But it wasn't that. It was something so much worse, and Murphy felt so fucking _guilty._ If only he knew.

He couldn't go into a church using the way he was. He couldn't face God while off his face on heroin. He would be consumed by that fucking guilt.

He wished he could tell Connor one night, sitting in that stairwell, his brother snoring loudly upstairs. He was so fucking high, felt so good, but that guilt was back. He wished he could ask his brother for help. Connor would know what to do. But he couldn't. It would break Connor's heart. And Murphy couldn't do that to him.

So he went back up the stairs, and lay in his single bed, listening to Connor snore next to him.

Guilt. All he felt was that horrible, gut-wrenching guilt.

 

-

 

It was too much.

Murphy knew as soon as he was done injecting it that it had been too much. The rush took his fucking breath away, and was immediately replaced by nausea. He stumbled into the bathroom, and puked up his lunch into the toilet. The cool porcelain felt calming against his too-hot skin.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He was too heavy. He was floating in and out of consciousness. Everything was too dark, and then too bright. Where was Connor?

Connor was gone. Went out minutes—hours?—ago with Rocco. He wouldn't be back for ages.

Murphy tried to stay awake, tried to remind himself to keep breathing, but his thoughts kept cutting out. Blackness crept up to him, around his peripheral vision. It felt peaceful, like he should just embrace it—

Keep breathing. Just keep breathing.

The dark enveloped him like a warm blanket, soothing him, telling him to let go. Just go to sleep.

Try to keep breathing.

Just go to sleep.

 

-

 

“Murphy!”

He came back to Earth with a hard slap to the face.

“Jesus—fucking _Christ_ , Murphy. Christ, yer back. _Jesus_. Rocco, he's back! Murphy, can ye fuckin' hear me? Can ye fuckin' answer me here?”

Connor sounded panicked. Murphy wanted to tell him he was fine, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Ye fuckin' idiot. Why d'ye have ta be so _fuckin'_ stupid, Murph?”

Murphy felt heavy, and Connor's hands were cupping his face, eyes darting all around in a terrified fervor.

“Well, he's not blue anymore. Guess we don't need that fuckin' milk then?” Rocco. Rocco was there.

“Rocco, I need ye ta get the _fuck_ outta here, I need ta talk ta my _stupid_ fuckin' brother.”

Connor was angry. Pissed. Murphy felt himself flinch slightly at the harsh words.

“Fuck, fine, fine. I'm gone. Don't need no more family drama than I've already got.” Murphy watched as Rocco's big, heavy boots clomped away, heard the elevator start up, and then it was deathly quiet.

The silence hung heavy in the air. Murphy tried to keep his eyes open, tried to look Connor in the face, but he couldn't. He kept his eyes closed and just tried to breathe. Connor was holding onto him like he was delicate, his hands clasped, gingerly, onto Murphy's shoulders.

“Murph,” Connor's voice was a whisper, “what the fuck do ye think yer doin'?”

“ _What?”_ Murphy grumbled, throat dry.

“Fuckin' heroin, Murph? Needles and all this shite?” Connor's voice was starting to rise. “This is fuckin' insane. Y'almost fuckin' _died_ tonight. Yer so fuckin' lucky I forgot my pack of smokes here and came back.”

Murphy started to push himself up, propped himself up on the cool toilet. “Sorry.”

“That's all ye can say?” Connor scoffed. He was lighting himself a cigarette, sucking on it violently, anxiously. “Fuckin' _sorry_? This is fuckin' serious, Murph.”

Murphy groaned, ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't deal with it right then. He couldn't deal with Connor knowing and hating him for it. “I know it's fuckin' serious, Conn.”

Connor looked at him, blue eyes sharp and spiteful. He passed his cigarette to Murphy, who took a grateful lungful of nicotine. “Christ, Murph... ye have ta get off this shit.”

“It's not that _easy_ , Conn.”

“Well, I'll make it fuckin' simple for ye. I'm flushing that shite down the toilet, and yer fuckin' stayin' here, and yer gonna fuckin' get that shit outta yer system.”

Murphy felt a surge of panic rise in his guts. “Conn, ye can't just fuckin' _make_ me detox!”

“The fuck I can't,” Connor snorted. “I'm yer fuckin' brother, and I'll fuckin' make ye.”

Murphy growled and kicked at his twin. “Fuck that. Yer not me fuckin' _Ma_ , ye can't make me do shit.”

“Ye want me ta tell Ma? Ye want me ta fuckin' tell her yer a fuckin' junkie, Murph?”

“I'm not a fuckin' _junkie_ , Conn, Jesus—”

“Well, what the fuck else would ye call shootin' up smack then?” Connor gave him a kick in the leg, and snatched his cigarette back. “Fuckin' stupid bastard.”

Murphy watched his brother carefully. He felt stupid. He realized he just wanted to be held by Connor, to lay down in one of their beds and just be _held_ , and it was such a stupid feeling, that he immediately banished from his mind.

“Tomorrow, Murph.”

“Tomorrow?” Murphy swallowed. He felt all the blood drain from his face.

“Aye. Tomorrow.”

Cigarette ash fell to the ground, and silence descended upon them.

 

-

 

Murphy always thought when he was using that he could just stop whenever he wanted. Maybe it would be easy. Detoxing couldn't be as bad as everyone says. He hadn't even been using _heavily_ for that long. It'd be easy to stop when he wanted to, he kept telling himself.

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The sweats came first. Then the nausea. Then the diarrhea. Then the _pain._

He hurt everywhere. He couldn't keep anything down, not even water, and anything that _did_ stay down ended up sweating out through every pore on his body. Hot, cold, hot, cold. He was leaking out of every orifice. Nose running, but his throat dry, sweating, shitting, puking, shaking.

It wasn't fucking pretty, and it wasn't fucking _easy_.

More than once he thought about sneaking out to visit Quinn in the middle of the night, but it was like Connor was always watching. He was wide awake every time Murphy so much as moved.

The pain was the worst part. It was like every nerve in his body had been set on fire, and every single movement caused the pain to radiate everywhere. He couldn't sit still, feeling restless, but couldn't move either without every muscle and nerve fiber screaming in agony.

Connor sat on the couch and largely ignored his moaning. He turned the sound on the TV up. Murphy wanted to call him over, ask him to fucking _help him_ but had no idea what Connor could do. Connor tried to force food and water on him, but Murphy could barely stand the taste of anything.

It was Hell. He was trapped in a Hell of his own making.

By day three, he was laying in bed, shaking uncontrollably, waves of nausea crashing over him. He was too cold, wrapped in all the blankets in the loft, including Connor's. He was letting out the unmanliest of sounds—little whimpers, moans. He hoped his brother couldn't hear.

He felt the bed sink behind him slightly.

“Ye a'right, Murph?” Connor murmured.

“O'course I'm not _fuckin'_ a'right, Conn,” Murphy gritted out, trying not to let his voice tremble too much. He felt Connor lay down behind him, move close. Murphy tried not to shudder.

“Ye did this ta yerself, ye know.” Connor's breath was hot against Murphy's neck, his skin oversensitive. He hated himself for letting a small whine escape his throat.

“Fuck off,” Murphy huffed.

Connor's arms snaked under the blankets, wrapped themselves around Murphy's body. His face buried into his brother's neck, placed a kiss on the sweaty skin there. “M'sorry.”

“The fuck're _you_ sorry about?” Murphy asked, breath stolen from his lungs. He tilted his head back, trying to give Connor better access. It felt good. It was the only good feeling he'd had in three days, Connor holding him, lips and breath against his neck. It felt so _right_.

“Fer not bein' there. For ye. When ye needed.” His nose was nuzzling against the damp hairs around Murphy's ear.

Murphy shivered, not from the chills. “Conn...”

“Shh,” Connor hushed him, arms squeezing, crushing their bodies together. “Shut the fuck up fer once in yer life.”

Murphy did. He laid there, a trembling, sweaty, disgusting mess, and Connor just held onto him like he was drowning.

 

-

 

Day four. Murphy woke up in the early morning, pre-dawn from the look of the sky, in a puddle of his own sweat, and with a raging, uncomfortable hard-on. He groaned to himself, because it was fucking painful, like everything else. Connor was still clinging to him, and he didn't know how to take care of his little problem without disturbing him, or puking everywhere.

He shifted, trying to find a position that was more comfortable.

Connor's hand was moving suddenly, quickly, and his lips were brushing over the too sensitive skin of Murphy's shoulder. “Let me,” he mumbled.

Murphy's brain short-circuited, and Connor's hand was inside his boxers, stroking gently. He hissed at the contact, hips bucking uncontrollably. So good so good so good.

Connor's tongue was on his neck, his hand moving as quickly as Murphy could bear. Murphy pressed his face into his damp pillow, moaned wantonly, panted, grasped at the sheets and clung to them for dear life. It was only one, two, three more strokes and he was coming into his twin's hand with an embarrassing whimper.

Connor wiped his hand on the sheets, and went back to holding Murphy from behind.

_What the fuck_ , his mind supplied. He couldn't find it in himself, however, to complain.

 

-

 

Connor didn't mention it. Neither did Murphy. Murphy had no strength of mind left to focus on what any of it meant when he was literally sweating poison out of his body.

Rocco came to visit at some point on day five, when Murphy was beginning to feel vaguely like a human again. The pain was starting to subside and he could finally stomach semi-solid food. Rocco brought a case of beer, which Connor was extremely pleased about.

Rocco and Connor sat on the couch together drinking while Murphy laid in bed, nursing a single can, hoping it would let him sleep. When Rocco left, he wished Murphy good luck, said he was looking better—though that wasn't really saying much.

Murphy sat on the mildewy tiles of their shower, trying to wash away all the sweat and stickiness and sick while trying not to puke all over himself. The shower spray felt like a thousand hot needles beating against his skin, though it wasn't nearly as painful as it was days ago when he felt like his nerves were burning holes all over his body. He just wanted to be clean.

He was sitting with his back against the wall, knees tucked up to his chest, head on his knees. He felt so tired.

“Yer usin' up all the hot water,” Connor mumbled, in front of him suddenly, totally naked.

“Get outta my shower,” Murphy grumbled back, trying to swat his twin away weakly.

Connor just smiled, turned the shower off, and hoisted Murphy up. “Ye can sleep in my bed tonight. Yers is soiled to high heaven. Might be nice to sleep in a clean bed.”

Murphy clung to Connor's shoulders, fingers digging in, suddenly dizzy. “Stay with me.”

They fell down onto Connor's bed, naked as the day they were born, and wet. Connor frowned, propping himself up on his elbow. Fuck, Murphy hated it when Connor frowned like that, like he was thinking too hard. “Murph...”

“Conn,” he said back, trying to find purchase on Connor's slippery back.

“It's not right, ye know,” Connor sighed, but gave up and pulled his twin close anyways, nuzzling the top of his head.

“What's not?” Murphy asked, though didn't really want to hear the answer.

“Ye know,” Connor said, fingers skating over Murphy's back. “The way I feel. S'not right.”

“Fuck that,” Murphy growled, head feeling fuzzy, overstuffed, like it was all cotton balls and lint. “ _Fuck_ that, Conn. Didn't fuckin' stop ye last night, did it?”

Connor froze, and Murphy could feel a flush rise over his twin's body. “Moment of weakness.”

“Yer so fuckin' stupid,” Murphy grumbled, and pressed his face into the warm flesh at his brother's throat. “I fuckin' love ya.”

Connor huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. I fuckin' love ya, too.”

 

-

 

It had been six weeks without heroin.

The boredom was still there. The monotony of going back to work, drinking at McGinty's, watching baseball, going to church, and doing it all over again was still there. Murphy still _craved_ it, but every time he looked at Connor, he just couldn't bring himself to put his brother through that again. It had been Hell for them both. And yet, it had brought them closer. A blessing and a curse.

When Murphy finally went into confessional after detoxing, he had sobbed to the priest on the other side. Jesus fucking Christ, he had wept like a woman. There were still some things he couldn't bring himself to say, specifically about him and his brother. Their _feelings_. Those wouldn't be welcome by any God; and if he said it out loud, it wouldn't be something between just him and Connor anymore. They were the only two that mattered where _that_ was concerned.

At least it broke up the boredom. He couldn't get enough of Connor, like he was just replacing one drug with another. He craved the smell of him—sour beer, cigarette smoke, a curiously girly hair product he wore—craved his hands on his body, craved the crushing weight on top of him when they fucked.

They had crossed a line, and there was no going back.

As long as he had Connor, he didn't think about heroin as much. He could distract himself well enough to not want to jab a needle in his arm too badly.

The track marks were healing relatively well—no longer scabbed over holes in his arms, but rather fine red dots over blue veins. He caught Connor looking at them sometimes when he thought Murphy was sleeping, tracing his fingers over them so gently, with such _guilt,_ that it broke Murphy's heart.

Connor still blamed himself. There were only so many times Murphy could tell him that it wasn't his fault. It _wasn't_.

St. Patrick's Day was coming up in a few weeks' time, though, and they always had a grand old time on St. Paddy's. It was the first time Murphy could think of in awhile that he was actually looking forward to what the future held.

 


End file.
